A Hat Full Of Sky (24 page)

“There was a dark doorway,” she said slowly, “and beyond it was a desert of black sand, and it was light although there were stars in the sky, and Death was there. I spoke to him….”

“You spoke to him, did you?” said Annagramma. “And what did he say, pray?”

“He didn’t say pray,” said Tiffany. “We didn’t
talk about much. But he didn’t know what an egress was.”

“It’s a small type of heron, isn’t it?” said Harrieta.

There was silence, except for the noise of the Trials outside.

“It’s not your fault,” said Annagramma in what was, for her, almost a friendly voice. “It’s like I said: Mistress Weatherwax messes with people’s heads.”

“What about the glow?” said Lucy.

“That was probably ball lightning,” said Annagramma. “That’s very strange stuff.”

“But people were, like, hammering on it! It was as hard as ice!”

“Ah, well, it probably
felt
like that,” said Annagramma, “but it was…probably affecting people’s muscles, maybe. I’m only trying to be helpful here,” she added. “You’ve got to be sensible. She just stood there. You saw her. There weren’t any doors or deserts. There was just her.”

Tiffany sighed. She felt tired. She wanted to crawl off somewhere. She wanted to go home. She’d walk there now if her boots weren’t suddenly so uncomfortable.

While the girls argued, she undid the laces and tugged one off.

Silver-black dust poured out. When it hit the
ground, it bounced slowly, curving up into the air again like mist.

The girls turned, watching in silence. Then Petulia reached down and caught some of the dust. When she lifted her hand, the fine stuff flowed between her fingers. It fell as slowly as feathers.

“Sometimes things go wrong,” she said, in a faraway voice. “Mistress Blackcap told me. Haven’t any of you been there when old folk are dying?” There were one or two nods, but everyone was watching the dust.

“Sometimes things go wrong,” said Petulia again. “Sometimes they’re dying but they can’t leave because they don’t know the Way. She said that’s when they need you to be there, close to them, to help them find the door so they don’t get lost in the dark.”

“Petulia, we’re not supposed to talk about this,” said Harrieta gently.

“No!” said Petulia, her face red. “It is time to talk about it, just here, just us! Because she said it’s the last thing you can do for someone. She said there’s a dark desert they have to cross, where the sand—”

“Hah! Mrs. Earwig says that sort of thing is black magic,” said Annagramma, her voice as
sharp and sudden as a knife.

“Does she?” said Petulia dreamily as the sand poured down. “Well, Mistress Blackcap said that sometimes the moon is light and sometimes it’s in shadow, but you should always remember it’s the same moon. And…Annagramma?”

“Yes?”

Petulia took a deep breath.

“Don’t you
ever
dare interrupt me again as long as you live. Don’t you dare. Don’t you
dare
! I mean it.”

A
nd then…there were the Trials themselves. That was the point of the day, wasn’t it? But Tiffany, stepping out with the girls around her, sensed the buzz in the air. It said: Was there any point
now
? After what had happened?

Still, people had put up the rope square again, and a lot of the older witches dragged their chairs to the edge of it, and it seemed that it was going to happen after all. Tiffany wandered up to the rope, found a space, and sat down on the grass with Granny Weatherwax’s hat in front of her.

She was aware of the other girls behind her, and also of a buzz or susurration of whispering spreading out into the crowd.

“…She really did do it, too…. No, really…all the way to the desert…. Saw the dust…her bootswere full, they say….”

Gossip spreads faster among witches than a bad cold. Witches gossip like starlings.

There were no judges and no prizes. The Trials weren’t like that, as Petulia had said. The point was to show what you could do, to show what you’d become, so that people would go away thinking things like “That Caramella Bottlethwaite, she’s coming along nicely.” It wasn’t a competition, honestly. No one
won
.

And if you believed
that
, you’d believe that the moon is pushed around the sky by a goblin called Wilberforce.

What
was
true was that one of the older witches generally opened the thing with some competent but not surprising trick that everyone had seen before but still appreciated. That broke the ice. This year it was old Goodie Trample and her collection of singing mice.

But Tiffany wasn’t paying attention. On the other side of the roped-off square, sitting on a chair and surrounded by older witches like a queen on her throne, was Granny Weatherwax.

The whispering went on. Maybe opening her eyes had opened her ears, too, because Tiffany felt she could hear the whispers all around the square.

“…Din’t have no trainin’, just did it…. Did
you see that horse?…I never saw no horse!…Din’t just open the door, she stepped right in!…Yeah, but who was it fetched her back? Esme Weatherwax, that’s who!…Yes, that’s what I’m sayin’, any little fool could’ve opened the door by luck, but it takes a real witch to bring her back, that’s a winner, that is…. Fought the thing, left it there!…I didn’t see you doing anything, Violet Pulsimone! That child…Was there a horse or not?…Was going to do my dancing broom trick, but that’d be wasted now, of course…. Why did Mistress Weatherwax give the girl her hat, eh? What’s she want us to think? She never takes off her hat to no one!”

You could feel the tension, crackling from pointy hat to pointy hat like summer lighting.

The mice did their best with “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles,” but it was easy to see that their minds weren’t on it. Mice are high-strung and very temperamental.

Now people were leaning down beside Granny Weatherwax. Tiffany could see some animated conversations going on.

“You know, Tiffany,” said Lucy Warbeck, behind her, “all you’ve got to do is, like, stand up and admit it. Everyone knows you did it. I mean no one’s ever, like, done something like
that
at the Trials!”

“And it’s about time the old bully lost,” said Annagramma.

But she’s not a bully, Tiffany thought. She’s tough, and she expects other witches to be tough, because the edge is no place for people who break. Everything with her is a kind of test. And her Third Thoughts handed over the thought that had not quite made it back in the tent: Granny Weatherwax, you
knew
the hiver would only come for me, didn’t you? You talked to Dr. Bustle, you
told
me. Did you just turn me into your trick for today? How much did you guess? Or know?

“You’d win,” said Dimity Hubbub. “Even some of the older ones would like to see her taken down a peg. They know big magic happened. There’s not a whole shamble for
miles
.”

So I’d win because some people don’t like somebody else? Tiffany thought. Oh,
yes
, that’s
really
be something to be proud of….

“You can bet
she’ll
stand up,” said Annagramma. “You watch. She’ll explain how the poor child got dragged into the Next World by a monster, and she brought her back. That’s what I’d do, if I was her.”

I expect you would, Tiffany thought. But you’re not, and you’re not me, either.

She stared at Granny Weatherwax, who was
waving away a couple of elderly witches.

I wonder, she thought, if they’ve been saying things like “This girl needs taking down a peg, Mistress Weatherwax.” And as she thought that, Granny turned back and caught her eye—

The mice stopped singing, mostly in embarrassment. There was a pause, and then people started to clap, because it was the sort of thing you had to do.

A witch, someone Tiffany didn’t know, stepped out into the square, still clapping in that fluttery, hands-held-close-together-at-shoulder-height way that people use when they want to encourage the audience to go on applauding just that little bit longer.

“Very well done, Doris, excellent work, as ever,” she trilled. “They’ve come along marvelously since last year, thank you very much, wonderful, well done…ahem…”

The woman hesitated, while behind her Doris Trample crawled around on hands and knees trying to urge her mice back into their box. One of them was having hysterics.

“And now, perhaps…some lady would like to, er…take the, er…stage?” said the mistress of ceremonies, as brightly as a glass ball about to shatter. “Anyone?”

There was stillness, and silence.

“Don’t be shy, ladies!” The voice of the mistress of ceremonies was getting more strained by the second. It’s no fun trying to organize a field full of born organizers. “Modesty does not become us! Anyone?”

Tiffany
felt
the pointy hats turning, some toward her, some toward Granny Weatherwax. Away across the few yards of grass, Granny reached up and brushed someone’s hand from her shoulder, sharply, without breaking eye contact with Tiffany. And we’re not wearing hats, thought Tiffany. You gave me a virtual hat once, Granny Weatherwax, and I thank you for it. But I don’t need it today. Today, I know I’m a witch.

“Oh, come now, ladies!” said the mistress of ceremonies, now almost frantic. “This is the Trials! A place for friendly and instructive contestation in an atmosphere of fraternity and goodwill! Surely some lady…or young lady, perhaps…?”

Tiffany smiled. It should be
sorority
, not
fraternity
. We’re sisters, mistress, not brothers.

“Come
on
, Tiffany!” Dimity urged. “They
know
you’re good!”

Tiffany shook her head.

“Oh, well, that’s it,” said Annagramma, rolling
her eyes. “The old baggage has messed with the girl’s head,
as usual
—”

“I don’t know who’s messed with whose head,” snapped Petulia, rolling up her sleeves. “But
I’m
going to do the pig trick.” She got to her feet, and there was a general stir in the crowd.

“Oh, I see it’s going to be—oh, it’s you, Petulia,” said the mistress of ceremonies, slightly disappointed.

“Yes, Miss Casement, and I intend to perform the pig trick,” said Petulia loudly.

“But, er, you don’t seem to have brought a pig with you,” said Miss Casement, taken aback.

“Yes, Miss Casement. I shall perform the pig trick…
without a pig!
”

This caused a sensation, and cries of “Impossible!” and “There are children here, you know!”

Miss Casement looked around for assistance and found none.

“Oh well,” she said helplessly. “If you are sure, dear…”

“Yes. I am. I shall use…a sausage!” said Petulia, producing one from a pocket and holding it up. There was another sensation.

Tiffany didn’t see the trick. Nor did Granny
Weatherwax. Their gaze was like an iron bar, and even Miss Casement instinctively didn’t step into it.

But Tiffany heard the squeal, and the gasp of amazement, and then the thunder of applause. People would have applauded anything at that point, in the same way that pent-up water would take any route out of a dam.

And
then
witches got up. Miss Level juggled balls that stopped and reversed direction in midair. A middle-aged witch demonstrated a new way to stop people from choking, which doesn’t even sound magical until you understand that a way of turning nearly dead people into fully alive people is worth a dozen spells that just go
twing!
And other women and girls came up one at a time, with big tricks and handy tips and things that went
wheee!
or stopped toothache or, in one case, exploded—

—and then there were no more entries.

Miss Casement walked back into the center of the field, almost drunk with relief that there
had
been a Trials, and made one final invitation to any ladies
“or, indeed, young ladies”
who might like to come forward.

There was a silence so thick you could have stuck pins in it.

And then she said: “Oh, well…in that case, I declare the Trials well and truly closed. Tea will be in the big tent!”

Tiffany and Granny stood up at the same time, to the second, and bowed to each other. Then Granny turned away and joined the stampede toward the teas. It was interesting to see how the crowd parted, all unaware, to let her through, like the sea in front of a particularly good prophet.

Petulia was surrounded by other young witches. The pig trick had gone down very well. Tiffany lined up to give her a hug.

“But
you
could have won!” said Petulia, red in the face with happiness and worry.

“That doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t,” said Tiffany.

“You gave it away,” said a sharp voice behind her. “You had it in your hand, and you gave it all away. How do you feel about that, Tiffany? Do you have a taste for humble pie?”

“Now you listen to me, Annagramma,” Petulia began, pointing a furious finger.

Tiffany reached out and lowered the girl’s arm. Then she turned and smiled so happily at Annagramma that it was disturbing.

What she wanted to say was: “Where I come
from, Annagramma, they have the Sheepdog Trials. Shepherds travel there from all over to show off their dogs. And there’re silver crooks and belts with silver buckles and prizes of all kinds, Annagramma, but do you know what the big prize is? No, you wouldn’t. Oh, there are judges, but they don’t count, not for the
big
prize. There is—there
was
a little old lady who was always at the front of the crowd, leaning on the hurdles with her pipe in her mouth with the two finest sheepdogs ever pupped sitting at her feet. Their names were Thunder and Lightning, and they moved so fast, they set the air on fire and their coats outshone the sun, but she never, ever put them in the Trials. She knew more about sheep than even sheep know. And what every young shepherd wanted, really
wanted
, wasn’t some silly cup or belt but to see her take her pipe out of her mouth as he left the arena and quietly say, ‘That’ll do,’ because that meant he was a
real
shepherd and all the other shepherds would know it, too. And if you’d told him he had to challenge her, he’d cuss at you and stamp his foot and tell you he’d sooner spit the sun dark. How could he ever win? She
was
shepherding. It was the whole of her life. What you took away from her you’d take away from yourself. You
don’t understand that, do you? But it’s the heart and soul and center of it! The soul…and…center!”

But it would be wasted, so what she said was: “Oh, just shut up, Annagramma. Let’s see if there’s any buns left, shall we?”

Overhead, a buzzard screamed. She looked up.

The bird turned on the wind and, racing through the air as it began the long glide, headed back toward home.

They were always there.

Beside her cauldron, Jeannie opened her eyes.

“He’s comin’ hame!” she said, scrambling to her feet. She waved a hand urgently at the watching Feegles. “Don’t ye just stand there gawping!” she commanded. “Catch some rabbits to roast! Build up the fire! Boil up a load o’ water, ’cuz I’m takin’ a bath! Look at this place, ’tis like a midden! Get it cleaned up! I want it sparkling for the Big Man! Go an’ steal some Special Sheep Liniment! Cut some green boughs, holly or yew, mebbe! Shine up the golden plates! The place must sparkle! What’re ye all standin’ there for?”

“Er, what did ye want us to do first, Kelda?” asked a Feegle nervously.

“All of it!”

In her chamber they filled the kelda’s soup-bowl bath and she scrubbed, using one of Tiffany’s old toothbrushes, while outside there were the sounds of Feegles working hard at cross-purposes. The smell of roasting rabbit began to fill the mound.

Jeannie dressed herself in her best dress, did her hair, picked up her shawl, and climbed out of the hole. She stood there watching the mountains until, after about an hour, a dot in the sky got bigger and bigger.

As a kelda, she would welcome home a warrior. As a wife, she would kiss her husband and scold him for being so long away. As a woman, she thought she would melt with relief, thankfulness, and joy.